


Cold Hands

by juliafied



Series: DA Drunk Writing Circle Prompt Fills [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill, Romantic Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, dadwc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28792470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliafied/pseuds/juliafied
Summary: “You know, you really ought to get a hat,” she murmurs, sliding next to him as he passes the apothecary a coin in exchange for a small pouch. The merchant nods at her with a murmured “Herald”, and Solas thanks him.“I have no need for one,” he replies with a half-smile as they walk towards another stall, “I am perfectly warm.”She snorts and playfully lays a hand on his shiny head, and is shocked that it is indeed warmer than she expected. He jerks away from her touch, then, and fixes her with a mildly reproachful look as his fingers catch the hand that she has quickly drawn away from his head.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Lavellan & Solas
Series: DA Drunk Writing Circle Prompt Fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099877
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Cold Hands

**Author's Note:**

> For [DADWC](https://dadrunkwriting.tumblr.com/). Prompt from [luzial](https://luzial.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr: Welcome to the DWC! For the winter 3 word prompts: Marketplace, Late Morning, Cold Hands - pairing of your choice. Happy new year! 🎉

It is the coldest morning in Haven yet, and Lavellan’s lower back simply _aches_ when she gets out of her narrow bed in the cottage that has been put aside for her. She wishes desperately she could sleep on the ground, like she is used to, but perhaps Solas is right in that she has come too far south to sleep on the ground like her Marcher kinfolk. Solas is right about most things, she finds.

It is market day, and if she hurries she can make it in time for her allegedly devoted populace to at least _see_ her browsing the wares, even if she does not wish to purchase anything. Privately, she wishes for the plump hares and juicy fowl that her clan’s hunters are known for, but here, south of the Waking Sea, the game is harsh and tough and good for not much more than jerky. Jerky that is abundant in the marketplace, along with dense root vegetables that she does not recognize, and limp-looking leafy greens. It is ungrateful, she knows. But she has given enough already _—_ they will have to do without her gratitude. 

She weaves between the now-dwindling crowd, some with their hands full, others just looking, still more whispering as she walks by. She does not pretend these whispers are all friendly, but neither does she glare _—_ instead, she smiles to herself as she spots a familar hairless head by the single merchant selling herbs and grasses among the mounds of jerky.

“You know, you really ought to get a hat,” she murmurs, sliding next to him as he passes the apothecary a coin in exchange for a small pouch. The merchant nods at her with a murmured “Herald”, and Solas thanks him. 

“I have no need for one,” he replies with a half-smile as they walk towards another stall, “I am perfectly warm.”

She snorts and playfully lays a hand on his shiny head, and is shocked that it is indeed warmer than she expected. He jerks away from her touch, then, and fixes her with a mildly reproachful look as his fingers catch the hand that she has quickly drawn away from his head.

“It seems that _you_ are the one who has forgotten your mittens.”

She snatches her hand away, too. “I haven’t _forgotten_ them. I just don’t have any. It didn’t get that cold in Wycome.”

Solas hums. The merchants at the stalls have started packing up their wares, and they draw away from the marketplace and towards the path that leads to the woods. “Here, give me your hands.”

“What?” she says, only half-listening, her gaze turned towards a pair of scarlet birds climbing towards the clouds in the snow-covered treetops.

He repeats himself, gently, “Your hands, please, give them here.”

Curious, she extends them towards him, but Solas does not take them into his own, as she realizes she half-expected him to. Instead, he hovers his palms over hers. She feels a soft heat start to bring sensation back into her fingertips. His fingers seem to shimmer only slightly against the snowy background of the path. 

“That’s a fascinating amount of control,” she remarks, cocking her head to the side. “Where did you learn to do that?” She almost laughs when she suspects that the answer will be _in the Fade_.

To her surprise, he merely smiles and replies, “I have slumbered in colder camps than these, and, truthfully... I hate having cold hands.”

She stretches out and wiggles her fingers. They are as warm as if she had spent a half-hour warming them by a fire. With a grin, she grips his shoulder and, rising to her tippy toes, presses a palm, as before, against his head. “Better?”

He snorts. “Much.”

She lets go of his shoulder and thinks again about the spell. “Would you teach me how to do that?” she asks. “It’s good in a pinch, and it seems like a valuable exercise in magical control.”

He gives her a sidelong glance that she can’t quite read, but his tone is pleased when he answers, “Of course.”


End file.
